


Nasty, Big, Pointy Teeth

by ignipes



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-31
Updated: 2006-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-07 04:31:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys get drunk and blow some shit up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nasty, Big, Pointy Teeth

Sam is at the edge of the clearing, trying not to lose his lunch. He takes a deep breath and tilts his head back, staring at the clear blue sky beyond the pines, breathing through his mouth.

There's a footstep beside him and he spins around.

"You okay?" Dean asks.

"Yeah. Fine." The sharp, metallic smell of blood mingles with the vanilla scent of the trees, but he tries not to think about it. "You have any idea what it was?"

"Oh, yeah," Dean says. "No question what did this."

Surprised, Sam raises his eyebrows. "Well? What is it?"

Dean glances back toward the center of the clearing. The men look like they would be standing in a tight, nervous cluster if only they could manage it without stepping on any stray body parts, and their voices are low, urgent, worried. Plaid shirts and sturdy boots, John Deere hats and untrimmed beards, they have three shotguns and five hunting knives between the four of them, and Sam is pretty sure those glances they keep sending at him and Dean are none too friendly.

"C'mon." Dean jerks his head toward the road. "We've got work to do."

~

"No way."

"Way."

"No fucking way. Impossible. No way.

"What is this, The Skeptic Hour With Sam Winchester? Seriously, man, this is hardly the weirdest thing we've ever hunted."

"But it's -- but they're -- no way."

"I know their handiwork when I see it. Or... toothywork."

"Postcards, Dean. Keychains. _Cartoons_."

"And statues. Don't forget the statues."

"But... do they really have--"

"Yes."

"What the fuck."

"You'll get used to it."

"Yeah, whatever. Do we really need to buy all this stuff? Are you sure this is going to work?"

"Trust me. I've hunted these things a million times before. It'll work."

"It just seems a little..."

"You got a problem with this job, Sam?"

"No, man. No. I just think... I mean, I didn't even know they were _real_."

"You didn't know vampires were real, but that didn't stop us from hunting them."

"You didn't know vampires were real either."

"Whatever. Look, it works. Everybody knows this is how you catch the little fuckers."

"If you say so. Does the brand matter?"

"What? No, of course not. They're animals, Sam, not connoisseurs."

"Connoisseurs?"

"Just grab the shit so we can get out of here."

"But if the brand doesn't matter, why are you--"

"Dude, the good stuff's for us. This horse-piss plastic-bottle rotgut is for the critters."

"And this is all we need?"

"Of course not. After we blow this joint, we head to Wiley's for more supplies."

"What kind of supplies?"

"You'll see."

"I don't like that look."

"What look?"

"_That_ look. Last time you had that look when you went to get supplies, you came back to the motel room with a feather boa and that leg waxing... waxy... wax stuff."

"And you never looked prettier."

"Bite me. Really, Dean, what kind of supplies?"

"You'll see."

~

It's mid-afternoon by the time they reach Wiley's place at the foot of the Bighorns. Dean slows the car as he turns onto the washer-board dirt road, cursing under his breath as they crawl over every rock and rut.

"I didn't even know Wiley was still alive," Sam says. He barely remembers the landscape that stretches for miles on either side of the road: scraggly sagebrush and dry brown grass, red-orange hills striped with white clay against a backdrop of deep green mountains.

"He was last time I saw him -- three, four years ago."

"And what do we need from him now?"

"I told you," Dean says, rolling his eyes in exasperation, "you'll see when we get there."

They stop at the fence that surrounds Wiley's property, and Sam jumps out to pull aside the makeshift barbed wire gate. There's a skull stuck on top of one post -- coyote, Sam hopes, though it could be one of Wiley's old dogs for all he knows -- and a tattered leather boot on top of the other. The car pulls through and he shuts the gate behind it, hooking the loop of wire over the gnarled fencepost and giving the skull a friendly pat.

Another mile or so up the dirt road Wiley's place comes into view, a ramshackle collection of weathered, gray outbuildings clustered around a crooked log cabin that looks like it hasn't been repaired since Jim Bridger himself rode through. A rusted-out pickup is parked beside a six-foot pile of gleaming white antlers, and Sam counts at least five discarded engines and generators overgrown by shrubs and weeds around the yard.

There's a tendril of smoke snaking up from the crumbling stone chimney of the cabin.

"Well, somebody's home," Sam says.

"Wiley'll be happy to see us."

"Why won't you just tell me what we need?"

"Why won't you just trust me?"

Sam snorts. "Yeah, right. I know what kind of stuff Wiley sells."

Dean only smiles.

~

"Whoa, there, son. Careful with that."

"But this is--"

"Yeah, yeah, just don't--"

"Hey, I know. I'm being careful."

"Just don't -- set it down over here, son. Set it down _slowly._"

"Wiley, this is awesome. I haven't seen any of this quality for years."

"I only keep the best around, Sammy. You know that."

"I mean, look at this. The nitro hasn't even started to sweat."

"Not in this barn, boy. I know how to store my goods."

"You sure do, Wiley. Look at those caps. Electric match?"

"Damn straight."

"And lead line?"

"What do I look like, some worthless city slicker used car salesmen? Course I got the wire."

"Cool. This is perfect. This'll work just fine."

"So what'd'ya boys need this shit for, anyway?"

"I -- uh -- actually, I have no idea. Dean?"

~

It's a two mile walk through the woods from the road to the clearing. Dean makes Sam carry the dynamite.

"Don't drop it," he says helpfully, tucking the amber bottles of whiskey into his backpack. "That would be ugly."

"Gee, thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

The sun has set behind the mountains, but it's still light enough to see without the flashlights. Dean leads the way, trudging over the carpet of pine needles and fallen logs. It's cooler here than it was at Wiley's place, the air thinner and lighter, but the forest feels too close around them. Sam looks from side to side as he walks, peering into the shadows.

"Stop worrying," Dean says. "They don't come out until after midnight."

Sam adjusts the crate of dynamite on his shoulder -- carefully -- and asks, "Are we there yet?"

The look Dean shoots him is almost as good as fifty pounds of high explosive. Almost.

~

"So, tell me again. What do they look like?"

"Dude, you've seen them. You get that hole over there?"

"In a sec. I've seen postcards, Dean. It's not the same thing. You think the Loch Ness monster looks like it does on the postcards?"

"I dunno. It might. The thing in Lake Champlain looks like the Loch Ness monster's postcards."

"Really? You've seen the Lake Champlain monster?"

"Nah, I haven't, but I met this girl in Burlington and she had this tattoo of a serpent that wrapped around her--"

"Dean."

"--and she did this thing when she flexed, it make the snake do this thing. I've never seen anything like it. It _squirmed_."

"Dean!"

"What? Hey, watch where you wave that stick. Dynamite is dangerous."

"Thank you, Mr. Nobel. Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well, start talking. How in the hell am I supposed to fight these things if I don't even know what we're up against?"

"I'm telling you, there's nothing to worry about. We're all set."

"Dean, I saw what these things did to those guys. I've never even -- I mean, they're not even gonna find all the body parts."

"We don't have to worry about that. Those punks probably tried to do the whole running-in-circles thing, and these critters? They hate the running-in-circles thing. If we don't threaten them -- or, worse, sing stupid songs at them -- they won't attack us. Besides, they fed last night, so tonight they'll be slow and lazy."

"But we don't--"

"We have everything we need."

"We have a box of dynamite and six bottles of single-malt Scotch."

"Exactly."

~

Sam brushes off his knees as he stands up. "That's the last one."

He checks to make sure the connection to the blast cap is secure, then backs away slowly, spooling out of the lead line before him. It's almost completely dark now, but his eyes are adjusted enough that he can just make out the spider-web of red wire crisscrossing the forest floor. He has to wind and weave through the trees to reach the log where they've set the rest of their things.

Dean is about thirty yards away, pouring cheap whiskey into plastic bowls arranged in a circle at the center of the detonation-wire web. Sam doesn't remember seeing him pay for the bowls when they stopped at the hardware store in Cody, but after a few seconds of internal debate he decides that they're doing the great state of Wyoming enough of a favor that the cost of a few dog bowls can be forgiven.

When he empties the last bottle, Dean tosses it into the forest and walks back toward Sam.

"Litterbug," Sam snaps. "You shouldn't throw trash in the woods."

Dean stares at him in amusement. "In a couple of hours these woods are going to be a big smoking crater. I don't think a few glass bottles are going to be what gets any tree-hugger's panties in a twist."

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Dean?" Sam reaches down and snaps a twig from a fallen log. "It's pretty dry. What if we start a forest fire?"

"Then we run like hell."

"Dean..."

"Relax, Sam." Dean sits down on the log and pulls the last bottle of whiskey -- the good stuff -- out of his bag. "We're not going to burn Wyoming to the ground."

Reluctantly, Sam sits down beside him, holding the trigger in his right hand. "If we do, Smokey the Bear is totally going to kick our asses."

Dean opens the bottle of whiskey and takes a drink. "We can take him."

"I don't know if we can. He's got claws."

"Claws won't do much good against a twelve-gauge shotgun."

"He has that cool hat too. We could never beat him unless we had hats like that."

Dean considers for a moment. "Yeah. You're probably right. Guess we better not start a forest fire, then." He holds the open bottle out to Sam. "Trade you."

Sam looks at the bottle, then back at the trigger in his hand. It doesn't seem like a very fair trade. "I can't believe you're drinking while we're on a job. You never drink while we're on a job. Well, not unless you're _interrogating_ a cute bartender."

"I know what I'm doing." Dean says.

"Oh, sure." Sam shakes his head in disbelief. "Next you're going to tell me it's all part of the plan?"

"Damn straight." He reaches for the trigger, but Sam jerks it out of his reach. Dean rolls his eyes, takes another sip of whiskey, and holds the bottle out. "There is not one single report of anybody ever seeing one of these critters while sober."

Sam looks at the bottle but doesn't take it. "You know, most people would assume that means these drunken reports are not very reliable. Not that, you know, you have to be drunk to see them."

"Yeah, most people would make that assumption. Good thing we're not most people."

Sam stares at him for a second, then sighs and grabs the bottle. "Do they really have antlers?"

"Sure do. Antlers and nasty, big, pointy teeth."

The whiskey burns as it goes down, and the forest grows darker. There is no moon.

~

"What time is it?"

"Almost midnight."

"Why do they only come out after midnight?"

"Circadian rhythms."

"I mean, it doesn't even make -- Dean, did you just say 'circadian rhythms'?"

"Give me that."

"Here."

"Not the bottle, moron. The trigger."

"No."

"No?"

"No way I'm trusting you with the trigger."

"Why not?"

"It's mine."

"It's yours? Dude, you're wasted."

"Am not. Your fault. I just think that I should hold the trigger."

"You'll push it too soon."

"I will not."

"Yeah, you will. You always hit the trigger too soon."

"I do not."

"Don't know how to wait. Out of the gate before the race starts. Popping the cork before the clock strikes twelve. Firing the rocket before the countdown's done. Unkinking the garden hose before the flowers--"

"Why do I get the feeling we're not talking about explosives anymore?"

"Hey, I only know what Emily Cartwright told me."

"Emily Cartwright? Emily _Cartwright_? I knew her when I was, like, fifteen. Besides, why would she ever talk to you? She was my -- no. You didn't."

"She was hot. I really dug those pigtails. You know she had a birthmark that looked like a little horse on her back?"

"Yes, I knew -- She was _my_ girlfriend, Dean!"

"She wanted help with her math homework."

"I can't believe you. I cannot believe that you would do that. You are a disgusting, vile, pathetic excuse for a -- whoa."

"Easy there, big guy. You fall off the log it's a long way to the ground."

"Fuck you. She was _my_ girlfriend."

"Sammy, man, I hate to break it to you like this, but she was _everybody's_ girlfriend."

"She was not. She was a nice girl. You corrupted her. I know it. You want to tell me about any other of my girlfriends you--"

"Shut up. You hear that?"

"Don't change the subject!"

"Don't shout. Listen."

"I don't hear -- what is that?"

"Look."

"Where?"

"Where I'm pointing, genius. Do I need to ask your wasted ass how many fingers I'm holding up?"

"I'm not wa -- holy shit. They really do have antlers."

~

They have antlers, and they have nasty, big, pointy teeth.

Sam gapes in the darkness. At first they just look like weird, spiky lumps moving across the forest floor. Then one of them comes closer, and he gets a better look.

"It's -- Dean, they're just bunnies. Bunnies with antlers."

Beside him, Dean is perfectly still, taut like a coiled spring. "Don't be stupid, Sam. You saw what they did to those guys. They go for the jugular and don't stop there."

"But they're just bunnies."

"Sam." Dean's voice is low and cautious. "They're vicious, dangerous predators."

"Look at their twitchy little noses."

There are about ten of them, and as a group they zero in on the bowls of whiskey like sharks falling on a hunk of meat. Sam can hear the sound of them lapping it up and the gentle tap of their antlers bumping together as they jostle for position.

"Look." Sam touches Dean's arm to get his attention. "That one is coming closer."

Dean is suddenly tense and silent, not even breathing. "Don't. Move."

"But, Dean, it's just--"

"Sam. Don't."

"Hi, bunny." Sam starts to stand up, but Dean's vice-like grip on his arm stops him. With a huff, he sits on the log again, pretending that the motion didn't make his head spin.

It twitches its nose at them for a few seconds, its front teeth and beady black eyes gleaming in the starlight, then it turns and hops back toward the others. It seems a bit unsteady on its huge feet, weaving back and forth, its ears flopping down carelessly.

"Dean. We got the bunnies drunk."

"Perfect." Dean's breathing again. "Give me the trigger."

"No. It's my trigger. Should I blast it?"

"Not yet!" Dean makes a grab for the trigger, but he's no more coordinated than Sam and he ends up grabbing Sam's ear instead. "Wait. Dude, you gotta wait until they go back in the burrows."

"Won't they notice the dynamite?"

Even as he asks, however, he sees that it's not going to be a problem. The critters sniff at the entrances to their burrows for a few seconds, but apparently nitroglycerin is not a danger that their genetic memory has warned them about. One by one, they vanish into the ground, half-hopping, half-stumbling in the dark. They remind Sam uncannily of frat boys heading home after a kegger, except with antlers on their heads rather than lampshades.

"Okay," Dean whispers. "Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch?"

Sam cracks up so hard he tumbles backwards off the log, but he manages to hit the trigger before he hits the ground.

~

"Rise and shine, princess."

"Urgh."

"We've got to get out of here before the sun comes up."

"Mmnngh."

"I swear, you don't move in ten seconds I'm leaving you here for Smokey the Bear to bust."

"Uh."

"Okay. What the hell is your problem?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing, my ass. I know that look. What is it?"

"So they're -- they're all dead?"

"Yeah. Blasted to smithereens, those evil, bloodthirsty little fuckers."

"Oh."

"Sam..."

"It's just -- I mean -- their little noses."

"That's it. I'm leaving."

~

The waitress is a Clairol redhead with a bright smile and a nametag that says "Norma Ann."

"Rough night, boys?" she asks, her voice loud enough to rattle Sam's brain between his ears.

Across the table, Dean winces. "You could say that." He has dirt smeared across his face and spattered all over his clothes and there are pine needles in his hair, but he manages a friendly grin. "We could sure use some coffee, sweetheart."

"Coming right up." She jots a couple of words on her notepad and adds, "You want to try the special? My Joe and his buddies swear by it as the best hangover food in the county."

Sam looks down at the laminated menu in the table before him and decides that it's too much trouble to try to remember how to read. "The special it is," he says.

"Sounds good," Dean agrees, though he looks a little green around the gills.

Norma Ann scribbles down a few more words and hurries away, her red skirt rustling and her heady perfume trailing after her. Sam watches her cross the room and start chatting with the cook through the order window. There aren't many customers in the place this early, just a handful of old guys in canvas jackets and well-worn hats sharing out sections of the newspaper at the counter. Even though it's morning and the sun is shining outside, the inside the diner feels dark and cramped; the walls are cluttered with photographs, maps, and innumerable examples of enthusiastic taxidermy.

Welcome to Wyoming, Sam thinks, where interior decorating means the beady-eyed heads of dead animals stuck up on polished wooden plaques. And fish. He counts at least seven mounted fish on one wall alone.

He closes his eyes, yawns hugely, and leans forward to rest his head on the table.

"Lightweight."

Sam doesn't even bother to lift his head.

"Embarrassing candyass excuse for a man, Sammy, that's what you are."

He replies, "Bite me," but the words are slurred in another yawn.

"You had, like, two whole sips, and you were gone."

Sam finally looks up again, squints at Dean across the table. "It's not like your doing much better this morn--"

He breaks off abruptly as something on the wall behind Dean catches his eye.

"Sam?"

There's a wooden shelf, about two feet long, with some fancy curls carved into the wood, like the doors of an old-time saloon.

"Uh... earth to Sam?"

And on the shelf is a rabbit. A rabbit with antlers.

The metal plaque nailed to the edge of the shelf reads: _Jackalope, Park County, Wyoming._

Its teeth, Sam notes, do not look nearly as nasty and sharp by the light of day as they did gleaming in the starlight.

"Sam, what are you--" Dean twists around in his seat. "Oh. Gotta love the decorating scheme. Well, at least the dead ones can't hurt you. Though..." His voice trails off, and he turns back to look at Sam. "It is awfully cute. For a rabbit."

Sam tears his gaze away from the stuffed jackalope and glares at his brother.

"I mean," Dean corrects himself quickly, "for a _bunny_."

His lips quirk as he says it, and Sam wonders if he can convince Norma Ann to accidentally spill a pot of hot coffee over Dean's head.

"Look," Dean continues, glancing over his shoulder, "just look at its beady little bunny eyes. And its little whiskers. Don't you think its little bunny whiskers are cute, Sammy?"

Sam decides that question does not require an answer.

"And its twitchy little nose. You were all about the twitchy little noses last night, but then you went and blasted them all to hell." Dean sighs as though he's telling a tale that saddens him to the very depths of his soul. "You and your dynamite. You can't have both, Sam. You should know that. You can love dynamite, or you can love bunnies, but you can't love both dynamite and bunnies."

"You are such a fucking lunatic." With a noise that's somewhere between a groan and a yawn, Sam falls forward and rests his head on the table again. "Does it still count as fratricide if your brother is a fucking lunatic?"

He enjoys a few moments of blessed silence.

Then, barely a whisper: "_Bunny killer_."

It's going to be a long day.


End file.
